


Corpses

by CarminaVulcana



Series: The Life and Times of Amarendra Baahubali [2]
Category: Baahubali (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 15:21:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15821619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarminaVulcana/pseuds/CarminaVulcana
Summary: Dignity in death? Does everyone deserve it? More importantly, does everyone get it?





	Corpses

The Mahishmati palace has always been by far the most imposing structure in the kingdom. Sprawling gardens filled with roses, marigolds, and dahlias, 20 feet high statues of elephants, numerous shrines to the Goddess Adi Parashakti, gilded columns inlaid with rubies and emeralds, crystalline pools of fresh water, trees bearing every fruit that could grow in the fertile soils of the Deccan, clothes made from the finest cotton from the Doab, and chefs trained in the kitchens of Maharaj Ramanitadeva—Mahishmati’s royalty lives in luxury.

But this is routine for them. Every day, they savor the richness of their fortune. And in turn, they use it to rule over the kingdom with benevolence, impartiality, and compassion.

Among their many duties, is the commitment to always protect the subjects from harm.

Kalakeya, a tribal kingdom to the south of the Sankarapuri mountains, dared to challenge Mahishmati’s sovereignty. With an army of 100,000 bloodthirsty soldiers, they came with the certainty that they would be victorious. There hopes were crushed along with their bodies, their weapons, and their spirit.

The battle ended two days ago. The two princes sustained some superficial injuries but nothing that would prevent them from enjoying the feast tonight. The celebrations after a victorious battle are always something to behold but this evening’s gala would be the grandest in Mahishmati’s recent history. After all, this is also the formalization of Baahubali’s status as the would-be king.

Bhallaladeva is unhappy with the decision. Everyone who knows him is aware of this. But today, he will hide his disappointment and anger. He is expected to participate wholeheartedly in this affair. And so, he will wear the new robes and jewelry his mother has ordered for him. He will smile and laugh with the royal guests. He will embrace Baahubali like a brother. And he will pretend that everything is right in his world.

The Rajmata knows how upset Bhalla is. It would have been easy for her to give the throne to him. She had known Baahubali would never hold a grudge. But she had had to think about Mahishmati’s future. Her conscience had not permitted her to crown Bhalla while someone like Baahu was available.

She wishes she could do something to make her son feel better. She has commissioned artists and sculptors to create his likenesses in ink, stone, and metal. She has invited musicians who will sing his glory tonight. But she knows it won’t be enough. However, this is not the time to worry about this. Guests will start arriving in less than ten hours and she still has a lot of work to do. For one, she needs to check if the kitchens are ready. And then, she needs to ensure the priests have everything for the yajna. Of course, she can delegate these tasks to someone else, but she prefers to oversee everything herself when she can. She wonders if she should call for Baahubali. But then she decides against it. He should not have to worry about these mundane matters, especially since this feast is being held partially in his honor.

While the palace is preparing for their big night, the subjects of Mahishmati are sharing in the excitement too. Every village and settlement in the kingdom is holding its own festivities. Sweets are being sold in vast quantities. The streets are decked up with flowers and festoons. Temples are collecting offerings of thanksgiving and prayers for the new heir. Happiness perfumes the air like roses from Lord Kuber’s own gardens.

Katappa is looking for Baahubali. The joyous fever of jubilation has struck him as well. He can’t wait to see Amarendra all dressed up like a king. It is true that he has always been forced to wear princely garb to the court. But he really prefers the simple clothing that the soldiers wear. Thanks to his dashing looks, even that drab uniform looks good on him. However, it does not even begin to compare with how majestic, how _right_ he looks in royal clothing. And that is why Katappa is searching for him. The tailors have finished his new robes. Now he must try them on so that any final adjustments can be made.

But, where is he?

XXXXX

Mahishmati’s people love him for his good humor, his kindness, and his bravery. They also love him for his fierceness as a warrior.

But they don’t quite know all of him. He is indeed a killing machine on the battlefield. But he is not a killer.

For better or for worse, he remembers the face of every man whose life he has taken. He has prayed for mercy for them in the afterlife. He has asked them for forgiveness in his solitary meditations. He has anonymously ensured that their families are financially compensated so that they are not forced to beg in order to survive.

However, the Kalakeya are a different story.

Mahishmati has no diplomatic ties with them; mostly because the Kalakeya do not believe in the concept of diplomacy. There are no spies either. Nor emissaries, traders, or tourists.  Furthermore, while every other kingdom, friendly or hostile, fits into the order of Hindu society, the Kalakeya stand apart from it. Their chiefs, kings, commanders, and soldiers are not Kshatriya. They, like all others of their tribe, are _avarna._ Casteless. Outside the fold of the _Varna_ system.

And that is why their corpses continue to rot in the battlefield. Normally, Mahishmati’s soldiers perform the last rites for their own fallen brethren and for the enemy soldiers whose bodies have remained unclaimed. But no one is willing to even touch the Kalakeya soldiers.

They will not sully their hands with the flesh and blood of these _avarna_ beasts.

This is where Amarendra Baahubali is. He has just tried and failed to convince his men to perform the last rites of the Kalakeya soldiers. These people who would follow him to hell and back at a single command, who would take a hundred arrows for him, and who would die for him a thousand times over— they will not touch the bodies of those they call unclean. Not even for their beloved Baahubali.

He had not known before how deeply the _avarna_ are hated by Mahishmati’s predominantly _savarna_ society. But now that the soldiers have refused to obey his direct orders, he understands. And it disturbs him.

The tangled, jumbled masses of bloody limbs, decapitated heads with eyes and tongues rolling out grotesquely, the stench of stale blood, and the deafening silence of death—he cannot turn his gaze away and pretend it does not exist.

War is ugly. Death, while not to be feared, is always to be mourned. And in the end, if human beings will not mourn for each other, who will?

Baahubali is more than a man of words.

He takes off his brocade jacket and sets it on the ground. The soldiers watch in shock and awe as he gathers the remaining firewood from their pile and stacks it into a funeral pyre at the edge of the battlefield.

Not a single person moves to help him as he hauls the first dead body over to the pyre and gently lays it down as if it were the most precious thing in the entire world. But while his men watch him at work, he pays no mind to them. He is too preoccupied by the task at hand, made even more difficult by the fact that he is forcing himself to look at the face of each corpse.

He realizes with a jolt that some of them were old enough to be fathers and grandfathers. Others were barely entering manhood. His eyes moisten at the senselessness of it all. But he has no regrets. Self-defense is always justified no matter what the price, unless it is the blood of innocents. In some sense, even these enemy combatants were innocents. They didn’t deserve their fate for following their king’s mad scheme. They had only done what was expected of them. But they had come with the intent to cause harm collectively. And hence, they had been killed as a a single entity.

However, now that the battle is over, they lie dead as individuals with no flags to fly above them and no kings to bow down before.

Baahubali remains immersed in his pensive thoughts as he continues to bring the corpses to the gigantic pyre. He loses track of time, forgetting that tonight is the big feast to honor his victory over the very men he is trying to cremate with dignity.

After hours of searching the vicinity of the palace, Katappa finds him here. His first instinct is to run to him and stop him. This lowly, disgusting task is not for him. And if no one will do it, the corpses can continue to rot. Not a single soul in Mahishmati is obligated to perform funerary rituals for the Kalakeya soldiers.

But then, he realizes that Baahubali is different from them all.

He does not believe in the so-called hierarchy of the varnas and the castes. He sees humanity where others see only savagery. He sees hopes, dreams, aspirations, and unfulfilled promises where others see only bloodlust. He sees people. Others see _kshatriyas_ , _brahmins, vaishyas_ , _shudras_ , and _avarnas_.

Baahubali places the last corpse on the pyre.

He closes his eyes and silently prays. No one hears what he is saying. But it is not necessary. They all know the words by heart. They have said them for their own martyrs all too recently.  

_“You preserve us in life,_

_You sustain us in battle,_

_You comfort us in grief,_

_You love us in joy._

_Grant us peace as we return to you._

_Forgive our transgressions,_

_Strengthen our loved ones,_

_Show us mercy,_

_In your sacred name, o Goddess Shakti,_

_The consort of Shiva,_

_Our mother, our teacher, our savior,_

_We take leave of this world.”_

As Baahubali lights the pyre, Katappa gathers the courage to finally approach him.

“It is time for the feast,” he says softly, knowing how out-of-place his words are. Baahu says nothing. But he nods in acknowledgement. For several minutes, he doesn’t move. He continues to stand there and watch the flames.

Finally, he turns around.

He is ready to follow Katappa to the palace.

He does not glance at the other soldiers who are still here. He is not angry with them. But he is saddened by the fact that they see the Kalakeya as less than human. He keeps walking quietly with a heavy heart.

XXXXX

He wakes up rather early. His body is still a little tired after last night’s celebrations. But he has a job to do, preferably before anyone else wakes up. He quickly bathes and changes into suitably plain clothing. As he leaves his bedchambers, he can hear the cooks preparing breakfast in the kitchen, the guards practicing in the courtyard, and his mother talking to her attendants.

He does not stop to greet anyone.

It will take him about a half hour to get to the battlefield. The pyre would be nothing more than a pile of ash by now.

Even though he knows what to do, his stomach is twisted in knots because he cannot shake off his dismay at the sheer scale of death and destruction caused in just six hours of fighting.

As he nears his destination, he steels his nerves.

But the sight that greets him is a totally unexpected one.

About ten soldiers led by Katappa are already in the battlefield. They are surrounded by hundreds of giant funerary urns. And with extreme care and caution, they are filling each one with the ashes from the pyre.

Baahubali cannot believe his eyes.

A moment later, he is spotted by a very young swordsman called Divyagupt who bows down on seeing him.

He gets off from his horse and walks towards him.

“Please rise,” he says to the soldier. “I do not understand what made you change your mind?”

“You did, our prince,” Divyagupt answers simply.

Nothing more is said as Baahubali smiles with gratitude and joins the men in collecting the ashes.

Later, they take the urns to the banks of Jeevanadhi and empty them into her rushing waters.

XXXXX

It has still not sunk in that everything has gone so horribly wrong in such a short span of time. As soldiers, they have been taught to have strong stomachs. Most of them have seen some horrendous things during wartime. But this perversion, this brutality—they are unprepared to deal with it. And yet, they must.

The disfigured, mutilated corpse of their king, Amarendra Baahubali, has been hung on a tall pole in the central square of Mahishmati’s busiest market.

Nobody can touch it. The common people cannot bear to look at it. They, the soldiers, dare not look away.

Every time a crow pecks at his numerous open wounds, they feel a knife twisting through their guts. Every time a dog pulls at his mangled, bloodied feet, something screams inside them.

They bear it as stoically as they can. It is after a grueling day that they return to their quarters, leaving only one guard behind.

The next morning, the corpse is gone.

No one ever finds out what happened to it. And no one knows where the guard went either.

Meanwhile, on the banks of Jeevanadhi, a swordsman recites the words to a _Shakti Stotram_. In his hands, is an urn filled with the ashes of a king.

_“…In your sacred name, o Goddess Shakti,_

_The consort of Shiva,_

_Our mother, our teacher, our savior,_

_We take leave of this world.”_

He concludes his ritual by letting the urn drop into the river as well. He watches it float away into the distance.

And then, he makes his way north to Kuntaladesh.

**Author's Note:**

> I was pretty annoyed by Rajamouli's depiction of the Kalakeya. As someone once deeply involved in Adivasi rights and anti-caste activism, I wanted to address this. Please forgive me if I have offended anyone with this story. The intent was absolutely not to offend anyone or hurt anyone's sentiments.


End file.
